


This New Condition of Living

by sevenfists



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-04
Updated: 2007-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-28 09:52:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10828857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: They were in Abilene that fall, suffering through the last of the summer heat in a two-bedroom house with no air conditioning, only rickety ceiling fans that clanked all night, their chains flapping against the blades. The noise kept Sam awake, but it wasn't like he was sleeping much anyway, his limbs sore from his sudden growth spurt and his head full of worries about Dad, who'd been gone for three weeks without so much as a post card.





	This New Condition of Living

**Author's Note:**

> For astolat, for Sweet Charity. Heavily inspired by That Scene in "Heart."

They were in Abilene that fall, suffering through the last of the summer heat in a two-bedroom house with no air conditioning, only rickety ceiling fans that clanked all night, their chains flapping against the blades. The noise kept Sam awake, but it wasn't like he was sleeping much anyway, his limbs sore from his sudden growth spurt and his head full of worries about Dad, who'd been gone for three weeks without so much as a post card.

Dean wasn't worried at all. "He said a month," he said, shoveling Corn Pops into his mouth, the sports section open at his elbow.

"Three weeks is almost a month," Sam said.

"Actually, _four_ weeks is a month," Dean said. His mouth was full, and he sprayed little bits of Corn Pops when he talked.

"You're disgusting," Sam said. "And I said _almost_."

"Whatever," Dean said.

Dean and his fake ID were bar tending at Applebee's. He woke up every morning to eat breakfast with Sam, and then shuffled back to bed after Sam left for school. He was usually gone when Sam got home in the afternoon, and didn't get back until late, often stumbling in with some drunk chick he fucked on the couch, keeping her out of the room he shared with Sam out of some twisted sense of responsibility. It was a moot point; Sam was awake anyway, and he'd lie there in the dark listening to the girl's high-pitched moans and Dean's low, steady grunts.

On Tuesday, Nina Barker kissed him under the bleachers during PE. Sam felt clumsy and awkward, not sure what to do with his hands or his tongue, until she grabbed one of his hands and shoved it up the front of her t-shirt. She was all sweaty and warm, and he could feel the tight bump of her nipple through the stretchy fabric of her sports bra.

"Barker! Winchester! I can see y'all canoodling under there!" the PE teacher yelled, furiously waving his baseball cap.

"Like, whatever, he's totally got hair implants," Nina said, and Sam snorted with laughter, his hand still up her shirt.

When he got home, Dean was slumped on the couch with a beer bottle tucked between his thighs.

"You're home?" Sam asked, surprised, dropping his backpack by the front door. The screen door creaked shut behind him, rattling on its hinges.

"Yeah, got the day off," Dean said. "What's the news, Sammy?"

"Nina kissed me," Sam blurted out, and then felt his ears go hot. He wished he'd managed to keep his mouth shut—Dean would have a _field day_ , and Sam would never hear the end of it.

Sure enough, Dean sat up straight, grinning hugely. "Oh yeah? Little Sammy gettin' some action? I wanna hear everything."

"It's not a big deal, she's just—"

"C'mere," Dean said, patting the sofa cushion next to him, and when Sam didn't move, he barked, "Sammy! Come _here_."

Sam responded to that tone of Dean's voice, his feet moving him across the living room floor before he'd consciously decided to go. He flopped down on the couch and crossed his arms, glaring at the television—it looked like Dean was watching Springer. "It's not a big deal," he said again.

"Dude, you're a man now," Dean said, and clapped him on the shoulder. "You gonna fuck her? What's the plan?"

"Dean—"

"Cause you better use condoms if you do. Okay? I can buy some for you if you're too much of a pussy, but dude, you do _not_ want to be knockin' up some random chick—"

"I _know_ ," Sam groaned, mortified. He picked at the unraveling seam on the couch cushion, ugly cabbage roses devolving into bits of colored thread. "We had sex ed, Dean, I know—"

"Yeah, well, don't let me catch any baby Sams runnin' around," Dean said. "Winchester men are extremely fertile, and you just never know—"

"Dean!" Sam shouted. "I am _not_ going to have sex with her!"

"Well, why the hell not?" Dean took a sip of his beer, grinning around the rim of the bottle. He clacked his teeth against the brown glass. "You're old enough, and if she wants it, I mean—trust me, Sammy, there is nothing better than high school pussy, especially if the freshness seal ain't been broken yet, you know what I mean?"

"You're totally gross!" Sam yelled. "Dean! Eww!"

Dean snickered. "You gotta pop it at some point, Sammy. And you better know what you're doing, premature ejaculation is bad news all around."

Sam slumped down further and clapped his hands over his ears. "I'm not hearing this," he said. He stared intently at the two overweight women tearing at each other's clothing on the TV screen, and Jerry hovering with his microphone, not trying particularly hard to break up the fight.

"You little bitch," Dean said fondly. He got off the couch and went over to the TV, crouching in front of the VCR and sticking a tape in it. The machine made a whining sound and ejected the tape; Dean shoved it in with the heel of his hand, and it stayed that time, the VCR's ancient innards whirring away as it spooled the film.

"What are you doing," Sam said, pulling his hands away from his ears. The ceiling fan rattled. The heat wasn't unbearable if Sam stayed perfectly still and let the fan push lukewarm air currents around the room.

"I'm gonna give you an education," Dean said. "Sit back and watch." He came back to the sofa and sat down on the edge of the cushion, grabbing for the remote.

"Dean—" Sam said, but it was too late—Dean had already hit play, and the screen flickered over to two naked woman moaning and licking at each other's tits, their tongues slick pink between their painted lips.

"Okay, hold on, I think it's the next one," Dean said, fast-forwarding. He reached down with his free hand and started loosening the laces on his boots, one and then the other.

"I'm not going to watch this," Sam said, but he didn't move, fascinated by the speeded-up motions of hands against round thighs, tongue against cunt. He'd watched porn before, but never like this, at three in the afternoon with his brother beside him on the overstuffed, sagging sofa, like it was something ordinary and expected.

"All right, here we go," Dean said, and hit play again. He kicked off his boots and propped his socked feet on the coffee table, toes wiggling. "Here we go, this is the good stuff."

Sam stared, mouth hanging open, watching as the woman spread her legs and the man dipped his bearded face between them, tongue and fingers working at her, and she tipped her head back on the pillow and moaned and moaned.

"Oh yeah, just like that," Dean said. "See, Sammy, you gotta go down on her first, make sure she's all nice and wet, 'cause it kind of fuckin' hurts if she's dry. Plus, chicks are always a lot happier if they come at least once before you fuck 'em."

"Would you please _shut up_?" Sam squirmed uncomfortably. His dick was already pressing hard against his zipper, and it _hurt_ , but he didn't want to just whip it out while Dean was sitting right there.

"I'm giving you helpful pointers, here," Dean said. "You better be grateful. This is hard-earned wisdom, Sammy."

"Yeah, 'cause watching porn is _tough_ ," Sam said.

"Smartass," Dean said. "Shut up and pay attention. You see how he's rubbing his fingers? I usually have better luck with my knuckles, you can get steadier pressure that way."

"Knuckles, got it," Sam mumbled. He grabbed one of the throw pillows and pulled it up in front of his face. He felt itchy and hot all over, and he was watching _porn_ with _Dean_ ; he wanted to stomp away and hide in his room, but more than that, he wanted to stay and see what the sweet tension in his belly would resolve into.

The bearded guy turned the woman over, his cock hanging dark and heavy between his legs, and she tilted her ass up, rubbing her full tits against the bed. He rolled on a condom and slid into her, his hands pale against her full brown hips, tugging her back against him, her ass flush against him; and he bit his lip, his eyes squeezing shut briefly.

Sam whimpered and dropped the pillow to his lap, covering his hard-on. He could still see the woman's nipples, big and brown against the white sheets, and he thought about licking them, wondered what texture they'd have on his tongue, what flavor.

"You like that?" Dean asked, smirking.

"Shut up," Sam said, "shut up," watching the fast twitch of the man's hips, his measured in-and-out movements, and the woman's flushed face, her mouth opening. Sam pressed down on the pillow, rubbing his dick up against it, and he wanted—he wanted _something_ , he didn't know what it was, couldn't put a name to it; but the longing was taut and heavy inside him, like a rubber band stretched too tight.

The man turned the woman over again and pulled her into his lap, wrapped her arms around his neck and thrust back into her. She tossed her head, her hair swinging, and she was bright pink now, flushed clear down her chest.

"Oh yeah," Dean said, " _awesome_ , this is it, Sammy, that's the _move_. It drives chicks _crazy_. 'Cause you gotta be strong to hold 'em up like that and still thrust in. They love bein' held like that, makes 'em think you're a real man. You pull that one in bed, I _guarantee_ she'll be beggin' for it."

"Okay," Sam said, barely even listening anymore, too fixated on the slick glide of muscle and cunt and sweat-shiny skin.

"It's okay if you need to touch yourself," Dean said, "this shit's supposed to make you horny."

"I hate you," Sam said, miserable and turned on, and went to go jerk off in his room.

***

John returned a few days later, and moved them three weeks after that, before Sam had an opportunity to use his newly-learned skills; and then for a while they moved quickly between towns, packing up every couple of weeks and moving on before Sam even had time to learn his teachers' names, much less make any friends.

They landed in Michigan in mid-February, and John promised that they'd stay through the end of the school year.

"I know it's been hard on you," he told Sam—a peace offering after days of furious silence on Sam's part. "We'll stay here for a while."

"Whatever," Sam muttered, picking at his green beans.

Dean banged pots around on the stove, louder than he needed to.

He met Stacy Buri on the second day of school. She sat in front of him in trig, and Sam spent the whole period mesmerized by the dark furl of hair at the nape of her neck, the pale skin beneath.

On Friday, she clutched at the strap of her backpack, blushing, and asked if he'd like to get burgers after school and talk about their math homework.

"Yeah," Sam said, staring at the sweet pout of her mouth, "I. Uh. Yeah. I'd like that."

A few weeks later, he found himself on the fold-out bed in Stacy's basement, watching her hike her skirt up above her knees, her little breasts heaving.

"Sam," she said, "are you. Do you want to—?"

"Oh god," he said, and had to close his eyes against the sight of her pink panties, trimmed with lace.

He thought of Dean—of what Dean had showed him—and licked clumsily at her, his fingers probing, until she quivered against him and tugged at his hair, her breath coming in fast pants, her slick flesh clenching rhythmically around him.

She pulled her clothes back together while he sniffed at his fingers, stuck them in his mouth and sucked on her strong, musky taste. She caught him at it and blushed bright red, hot and smiling, and he kissed her and humped the hard mattress until he came inside his jeans, all sticky and fierce.

"Oh Sam," she murmured, stroking at his sweaty hair. "Sam."

He didn't have a chance to try out all of Dean's moves until college. He lost his virginity to Stacy, sweet and missionary-style in the back of the Impala the night before they moved to Memphis; and then another good girl, cardigans and hair ribbons, the fall of his senior year of high school. And then he was too busy fighting with Dad all the time, working on his college applications, watching Dean slink around the house like a kicked dog—he thought about sex all the time, but it was too much effort to find someone to have it with. Sam wasn't a one-night-stand kind of guy, and there wasn't much else to be had unless you were willing to put in a lot of time and energy. He didn't have either, just a one-way street of a life and a brother he needed like an arm but couldn't take with him.

He met Jess at a party, spring of his sophomore year of college. She was topless, a strand of Mardi Gras beads hanging down between her bare tits, a beer clutched in one hand. She looked him up and down and licked her lips, canted one hip out to the side. "I'm Jess. I'll blow you in the closet," she said. "You wanna?"

Sam swallowed and said, "Yeah."

He'd had his fair share of blowjobs since he started at Stanford, but none of them held a candle to Jess, kneeling on the floor of the closet and rubbing the head of Sam's dick over her nipples, taking him into her mouth and all the way down her throat. Sam grabbed at somebody's North Face jacket and tried to hold back.

She took him home with her that night, back to the two-bedroom apartment she was sharing with one of her friends, and they fucked on her king-sized bed, wrapped snug in her comforter. Jess liked slow, sloppy kissing with her tongue in Sam's mouth, and she wanted to be on top. Sam was happy to let her—he lay there with his hands on her hips and watched her ride him, her breasts swaying. She was really something else.

In the morning, she made scrambled eggs and toast, and they ate at the kitchen table in silence. Sam felt itchy and hungover, and he wished he'd just snuck out in the night like he usually did, to avoid the morning-after awkwardness.

"Uh, so, I don't even know your name," Jess said.

Sam started laughing and choked on his eggs, and Jess had to pound him on the back until he could breathe again; and then the tension was broken. "Sam," he said. "I'm, uh. I'm Sam."

The next time he saw her, they fucked on his narrow dorm bed. He got one arm around her waist and hauled her onto his lap, his mouth on her tits, her cunt clenching around him—and Dean had been right, it was amazing, and Jess came twice, digging her fingers into his shoulders.

Dean would've been proud of him, he thought.

"Whoah," Jess said, flopping backward onto the mattress. "Not bad."

"Not bad? Is that the best you can come up with?" Sam asked.

"I guess we'd better do it again," she said. "Like, for practice."

"Uh-huh," Sam said, and bit at her neck until she squirmed away from him, laughing.

***

The first time he had sex with Dean, it was a disaster.

The problem, Sam realized quickly, was that they both thought the other one would be the girl. Dean kept trying to take charge of the kiss, holding Sam's face between his hands and tilting him this way and that, nuzzling gently at Sam's earlobe.

"Shhh," Dean murmured, "it's okay, sweetheart, I'll take care of you—"

Sam pushed him away, spluttering. " _Sweetheart_? Dude, what the fuck, I'm not some chick named Candi that you picked up at a bar—"

"Sorry, sorry," Dean said, flushing. "I'm just—fuck, Sammy, I don't _do_ this. Just shut the fuck up and be the girl, okay?"

"I'm not gonna be the girl," Sam said, and rolled onto his back, staring up at the stained acoustical tile on the ceiling. "Why do I have to be the girl? _You_ be the girl."

"Fuck that," Dean said, scowling. "I'm older."

"Okay," Sam said. "If you're gonna be like that, I have better things I could be doing—" He sat up, bracing his hands on his knees.

"Wait," Dean said. He caught Sam's wrist in one hand, his thumb and forefinger touching around the bone. "Sammy. C'mon."

Sam looked at the worried dent between Dean's eyebrows, his wet lower lip, the hair sticking out sideways right above his ear. He said, "Okay," and stripped off his t-shirt.

They humped furiously, Sam's hands on Dean's ass and Dean's hands on whatever he could reach, both of them sweating and biting at each other. It was the feel of Dean's cock, sliding firm and strange against Sam's hip, that finally set him off; and he sucked a hard bruise onto Dean's throat as he came.

"Fuckin'—that's gonna leave a mark, jackass," Dean said.

"Shut up," Sam said, his mouth against Dean's pulse, and he wrapped a hand around Dean's cock and wrung the orgasm out of him, sucking a deeper purple into the bruise he'd already made.

After, Sam rolled off the bed and pulled on his boxers, wanting some sort of protection from Dean's watchful gaze. He went into the bathroom to wash the come off his hands, splash some cold water on his face. He leaned over the sink for long minutes and tried to focus on his breathing, counting in and out, his diaphragm expanding. It didn't work. He smelled like his own sweat and Dean's, and he could still feel Dean's hand on his hip, like it had been branded there.

When he went back out into the room, Dean was sprawled on the tangled sheets, his cock softening but still red and wet where it lay against his thigh. "Sammy," he croaked.

Sam paused over his duffel, t-shirt already in his hands, and stared at Dean, all spread out and loose, sloppy, Sam's come drying into a crust on his belly—

He turned away, pulled the shirt over his head. "What," he said roughly.

"It doesn't mean anything," Dean said. "It's just, I dunno, urges—so don't start gettin' all weird on me."

"Yeah," Sam said. "Everything's totally normal, Dean. Right."

" _Whatever_ ," Dean said. "Stupid mistake, never happen again, and now I'm gonna go take a shower, 'cause your jizz is itchy as fuck."

Dean was a master at lying to himself, but he _sucked_ at lying to Sam, and his body spoke to Sam more clearly than his words ever would. The precise tilt of his shoulders when he got out of the car said, _I want you_ , and the way he wouldn't quite meet Sam's eyes over breakfast said, _I'm terrified of this_. Sam knew how to decode. Dean was tougher than Latin, but a lot more rewarding, because there was an actual real-world application other than killing things.

It was easy to blame things on Dean. The truth was, Sam was just as scared, just as uncertain. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for fucking his brother—not John's tough life lessons, not years of hunting, and certainly not Stanford, where incest was something half-mythical that happened only in backward Appalachian enclaves of rotting cabins with toilets on the back porch.

"Dude, are you gonna finish your home fries," Dean said, ketchup bottle already in hand.

Sam sighed and pushed the plate over.

The first time it happened—the _real_ first time, the one that counted—was about a week later. They were in a bar outside Kansas City, both a little tipsy, playing pool. Dean absently rubbed his thumb over the tip of the pool cue, testing the chalk, and Sam went hard so fast it felt like a head rush, his blood rapidly heading south.

"Shit," he muttered, leaning against the table.

"What," Dean said, "scared I'm gonna kick your ass again? Saddle up, Sammy."

"All right," Sam said, his voice cracking, and Dean's eyes widened, turned dark, and he took a step back. "Hey," Sam said, "Dean, c'mon, don't be like that—"

"I'm not," Dean said, and grabbed his jacket off the chair it was slung over. "Let's go."

They didn't touch at all in the car. Sam's heart was jack-rabbiting, and he fisted his hands on his knees and watched Dean's knuckles on the steering wheel, red with the cold. It was January.

He tripped over his shoelace in the parking lot, and Dean caught him, laughing, his hands firm against Sam's upper arms; and then they were stumbling toward the door, holding each other up, and by the time Dean got the door unlocked, Sam had his belt unbuckled and Dean's shirt halfway unbuttoned.

"Christ," Dean said, slamming the door shut behind them, "Christ, _Sammy_ —"

Sam kissed him, then, and tugged him toward the bed.

It was slow and messy. Dean stripped Sam's clothes off and licked at his inner thighs until Sam spread his legs as wide as he could and arched his back, wanting it, wanting the rough press of Dean's fingers into him and the warm heat of Dean's mouth around his cock.

"You know, you don't, uh. You don't have to go down on me until I'm wet enough," Sam said, doing his best to tug at Dean's short hair, and then gasped as Dean's teeth slid across the flared head.

Dean pulled off and smirked. His mouth was swollen and shiny. "You really wanna argue? Shut up and enjoy it," he said.

"It's not that, I just." Sam squirmed against the mattress. Dean's hands were on his thighs, holding him open, and it was like Dean could see all of him—every inch of his body, and everything he was trying to hide, every thought he'd ever had, every feeling—it was terrifying, to feel so exposed, and it gave Sam a thrill deep in his belly, low and longing.

"I know," Dean murmured, his thumbs rubbing at the tender skin of Sam's groin. "I'll take care of you, okay?"

Sam yanked at the blankets, past speech.

Dean crawled up the bed and sat back against the headboard, his knees bent. "Sammy, c'mere," he said—and Sam _knew_ what was going to happen, a sudden image of it sharp as a vision inside his head, and he flushed all over.

He said, "I'm not sure—"

"For Christ's sake, you're not _that_ much bigger than me," Dean said. "Shut the fuck up and get up here."

Sam went. He settled into Dean's lap, his knees braced against the mattress and his arms around Dean's neck, and he clung there, quivering, while Dean teased at him with slick fingers and then slid two in with no warning.

"Shh," Dean said, his free hand rubbing Sam's back, "just open up for me, okay?"

It wasn't hard to do as Dean said; as much as he tried to deny it, Sam had been taking orders from Dean for most of his life, and he took a deep breath and let go, feeling Dean's fingers glide into him, pressing deep.

"Oh," Sam gasped, and twisted his hips, testing the waters.

"You'll like it," Dean said, "I promise, Sammy, it's gonna be so good, you'll see—" He fumbled with the condom, rolled it on one-handed, and then his sticky hand was on Sam's hip, and his cock was nudging at Sam and working inside, a long sear of sensation too overpowering to be pleasure.

"Oh Jesus," Dean said, and his hips bucked up, and then he was all the way in, his thighs snug against Sam's ass, and it was too much for Sam to handle; he buried his face against Dean's neck and hung on.

Despite Dean's bravado, Sam ended up doing most of the work—he was too heavy for Dean to lift with his thrusts. He didn't mind. He teased himself on Dean's cock, rolling out slow circles and figure-eights; and then when Dean dropped his head back and said, "Please, _Sammy_ ," he gave in and started moving for real, taking Dean into him slow and deep, until they were both shivering and panting against each other's skin.

"Fuckin' knew you'd be a tease," Dean mumbled, his hands skidding down Sam's ribs.

"Not teasing," Sam gasped. Dean's cock was rubbing just right inside of him, and his orgasm hit like a hammer, knocking everything out of him, and he squeezed his eyes shut and rode through it.

"Oh, fuck you," Dean said, and thrust up _hard_ against Sam's limp weight. Sam was so blissed-out that he essentially missed Dean's orgasm; he felt teeth in his shoulder, and then Dean was slumping back against the headboard, breathing hard, all fucked-out and glowing with sweat and—

"Are you happy?" Sam asked.

"Can we not have this conversation right now?" Dean said.

"I guess so," Sam said, falling backward onto the mattress, pulling Dean down to lie on top of him.

"If you wanna snuggle and talk about our feelings, I'm outta here," Dean said, wriggling around until he could pull off the condom. He tossed it somewhere and it landed with a wet splat; Sam could only hope it had made it into the trash can.

He sighed. "Will you shut up for five seconds? I'm enjoying the afterglow."

"You started it," Dean said grumpily, but he wrapped one arm around Sam's waist and tugged the comforter over them.

The air conditioner cut on, clanking incongruously. It was starting to snow outside, a few slow flakes drifting in the beam of light from the nearby street lamp. Sam shivered and tucked himself into Dean, stealing warmth.

He was almost asleep when Dean stirred against him, and said, "Hey, you remember how I made you watch that porn?"

"Yeah," Sam said, not opening his eyes, his mouth curling into a smile. "I remember."  



End file.
